


you're what i couldn't find

by freloux



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 22:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10999875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: "It's just -" He pauses, wanting to choose his words carefully because he knows how important this is. "I've never."(Sequel tothe person falling here is me.)





	you're what i couldn't find

Lenore loves the flowers. She loves _everything_ , really, but she loves him the most.

H.G. takes her to libraries and museums, all the places he loves and that she's starting to love, too. He never thought of himself as the sappy, romantic type but when they hold hands, he melts. Her skin is soft and warm and their fingers clasped together makes him feel secure. Especially when she squeezes his hand and he squeezes back.

Somewhere along the way they moved from his little library to her bed. It's there that they spend time kissing now, holding each other and talking. He knows all the ways to make _her_ melt, now, sweet and dreamy. But underneath that is some unsatisfied desire - it's in the way she always reaches for him, for his turn.

He doesn't know what to do about that.

***

Edgar throws another dinner party. The invitations say "Now With 100% Less Murder!" and he seems proud of himself for making an actual joke for probably the first time in his life.

H.G. asks Lenore if she'll be his plus one. She looks at him, surprised. "Do you have to ask?" He blushes and mumbles down at his feet. "Yeah, I suppose, but I just wanted to make sure."

After that, she gives him such a long, deep kiss that he should probably do things like that more often.

The vibe is decent enough; it's most of the people from last time. H.G. makes the rounds of saying hello just to be polite, but truth be told he'd rather just be with Lenore. Unfortunately Oscar backs him into a corner and will _not shut up_ with this long and vaguely horrifying story about Walt Whitman, the explicit details of which he's really starting to wish he could unhear.

H.G. searches for Lenore wildly, desperately, but she's off talking to Annabel and the two of them are lost in their own happy little bubble. She's always been much better at these things than he is.

He finally makes his escape with an excuse about needing to get more punch and manages to find Edgar in a different, quieter corner. He follows Edgar's gaze to see that Edgar is watching Annabel chatting with Lenore. H.G. realizes that Edgar looks at Annabel the same way he looks at Lenore: amused, grateful.

"Is this what love feels like?" H.G. blurts.

Edgar glances over at him and seems startled by the question. H.G. realizes that even though he and Edgar live together they don't actually talk to each other that much. But when Edgar starts talking about Annabel he's different - animated, even. H.G. figures that he probably sounds the same way when he talks about Lenore. He can't help it: there is so much about her that is so wonderful and perfect to him that he just has to say it all, all at once, so the words just come tumbling out over each other.

***

Post-party H.G. is exhausted, but in a good way, which surprises him. Once he and Edgar got to talking, it was just easy, natural. It felt good to talk to someone else who's quiet like he is.

He floats upstairs to the attic so he can say goodnight to Lenore. She's sitting on the edge of her bed, head tilted to the side as she brushes out her hair. Honestly, H.G. thinks that the only clean part of the attic, free of any clutter, is her bed. It's got smooth white sheets and fluffy pink pillows that he knows by now are very soft.

And speaking of soft, the robe she has on over her silky white nightgown looks very cozy. Everything about her makes him feel so safe, especially the way her face lights up when she notices him hovering there. She sets down her hairbrush and floats over to pull him into a kiss. Her robe is indeed plush, and his fingers almost sink into the fabric as he holds onto her.

"You're so cute," she breathes, soft against his mouth before sliding her tongue back in with his. "Just so, so cute."

"Thank you," H.G. replies, quiet and completely sincere. It feels so good to be noticed and loved like this.

They float backwards a little, dizzy and aimless and occupied by kissing. Something hits the back of his knees and H.G. realizes that it's Lenore's bed. He falls back onto it and Lenore comes with him, landing on top of him and continuing the kiss without much of a break.

Her robe slides open and he's now very aware of the layers between them - how many he has on and how few she does. This is going very far very fast. H.G. wants to keep kissing her, wants to take this wherever it's going to go, but -

He doesn't really know what it is stopping him. Maybe he feels selfish, to be asking for so much. Lenore seems perfectly willing, by the indication that she's tugging him into place so now she's underneath him. But -

Lenore brings her knees up so her thighs are tight around him as they continue to kiss. "I want -" she says, muffled a little by the kiss. "Uhhhnnn -"

She arches up against him, twisting as she does so.

H.G. moves on instinct, reaching down between her legs, but she stops him with a tight hand on his wrist. Lenore changes the angle, then, so now both of their hands are cupped over each other against him. Against what is rapidly becoming a large and obvious outline.

He whimpers, flashing back to the last time they did this and he had blurted helplessly beneath his trousers, sticky clinging while Lenore held him. Her touch was so capable that it made the whole thing seem easy. Now she has that same touch, just slowly working him free.

Except this is her warm, soft hand touching him properly for the first time, and it's undeniably farther than he's ever gone with anyone - much less Lenore.

"I, um," he tries to explain, but moans instead. Everything seems very warm and sweaty. "Lenore, I - please -" He swallows hard, hoping she understands.

She moves her hand away from him and rests it up over her head on one of the pillows, settling her other hand onto her stomach. He rolls off of her and quickly moves to cover himself, zippers and buttons and belt firmly in place.

They lie next to each other for awhile, side by side and looking up at the ceiling.

"I'm sorry," H.G. says, finally breaking the silence. He looks down at his hands, which are folded on his chest and squeezed together tightly like some kind of shield.

"You don't have to be," Lenore replies. She's the big spoon now, curling up against him to skritch fondly at his hair.

"It's just -" He pauses, wanting to choose his words carefully because he knows how important this is. "I've never."

H.G. glances over at her. She's still petting his hair and looks sad somehow. He wants so desperately to give her anything and everything she wants. But for him to ask for what _he_ wants seems so far beyond his capabilities.

She smooches his forehead and that seems to right things again. So he drifts off to sleep with her body against his and her hands still in his hair.

***

H.G.'s favorite season is probably winter. It provides many different handy excuses to just stay inside and read, a glass of hot whiskey in one hand and some thick, time-consuming book in the other. Paradise. Snow piles outside and the wind whistles around the house. It's Edgar's ideal writing conditions, so he spends a lot of time in his study hunched over his desk and muttering about ravens.

Lenore is horrified to learn that H.G. has never been ice skating. "Come _on_!" she says excitedly, tugging at his hand. "I'll teach you!"

She has such an enthusiasm for life in general and he's more than happy to be carried along in the tide. They bundle up in warm, woolly layers. Lenore's coat is pale white with fur trim; it contrasts nicely with his black peacoat. The two of them just always end up matching each other. He smiles quietly to himself as they float outside, blowing out little ghosty puffs of air with each breath.

Lenore has the skates dangling from one hand and they clink together every so often. It makes for a nice little musical undertone to her chatter. H.G. loves listening to the sound of her voice because it's become such a fixed point in his life: this happy background noise that he can drift into even when they're not actually having a conversation, since it seems that Lenore sometimes talks just for the sake of talking.

"Ok, so this is how we do this," Lenore declares when they finally reach a little pond not far beyond the house. A ring of trees surrounds one end, edging into forest. A little rowboat is tied to a post by the shore. There's a bench on this side and they sit down. Lenore almost immediately starts to lace up her skates like it's nothing.

Of course, to her it probably is. H.G. looks at the skates nervously.

"Herbert George, you are a _ghost_ ," Lenore says, exasperated. "Nothing bad will happen to you. Here."

She helps him with the laces on his own skates once he's got them on, and then they head out onto the pond, hand in hand and floating inches above the ice. "This is actually one of the first things that I learned how to do after I became a ghost," Lenore admits. "You just have to concentrate really hard."

She gets that look on her face that he really likes, the one where she's so focused and determined. Lenore is very clear about what she wants. She's a little bossy sometimes but H.G. doesn't mind that much because it's actually pretty sexy.

Especially moments like this, where she's just so beautiful that it makes the place where his heart was just ache with happiness. Happiness at the thought that Lenore is here, and she's his. Little snowflakes have caught in her hair, and her face is all flushed. She looks so alive and bright and vibrant that he always forgets that she's a ghost, too.

Now she lets go of his hand to make contact with the ice. Her skates make a little _skritch, skritch_ sound, dusting up ice with each stroke. H.G. watches her go, impressed.

"But this is the best trick that I learned. Watch!" Lenore calls, already close to the other end of the pond. She skates a bit faster, turns on her heel, then spins up in the air. She floats up high before landing gracefully down and curtsying. "Ta-da!"

She looks at him, expectant.

"No. No, I, uh, there's a thing that I have to go do that I just forgot about, it's very important -"

"Come on. Just try," she says. She holds out her hand and beckons.

And that's how they end up dancing together several feet in the air, landing on the ice every so often only to touch off again. She's laughing, and they're talking about something that isn't particularly important, so he decides that now would be a good time to kiss her.

Kissing Lenore is even easier now because they do it so often these days anyway. Today he kisses her slowly as they float back down onto the ice. They stay like that for awhile, just kissing almost absentmindedly while the snow falls down around them all light and dusty.

Of course, they can't stay outside forever; even ghosts start to get cold eventually. H.G. pulls away and they both sigh. Lenore's expression is a little dreamy.

The two of them take off their skates, put their shoes back on, and float back to the house. H.G. tells Lenore all about the different types of snowflakes that there are as they go. He's grateful that she humors him by asking him questions and sticking her tongue out to try and catch them. But she also seems a bit distracted - she's unusually quiet which lets him do most of the talking. Which is a responsibility that he actually hasn't had to carry for most of their relationship. It's kind of weird and makes him feel very self-conscious.

Hot cocoa seems to be the best course of action when they get back inside. Lenore measures, or rather dumps in as much cocoa powder as possible while he stirs the milk. She floats up slightly behind and to the right of him, resting her chin on his shoulder and hugging his waist.

H.G. is grateful that Edgar keeps a fire going in most of the rooms in the house, otherwise it would be freezing. In the living room the fireplace is quite big, which makes it the coziest room in the house. There's a couch in front of the fire with thick blankets that are perfect for snuggling.

And drinking hot chocolate and snuggling with Lenore is the most perfect thing of all. She's still quiet, though. They've been in a relationship for awhile now, but H.G. still isn't completely the best at deciphering what's going on all the time. Which you'd think would be easy since Lenore is so loud and busy, but she's got a layer underneath that he's only just starting to uncover.

"What's wrong?" he asks, hesitant.

Lenore drinks some of her cocoa and then stares down into it, cradling the mug tightly in her hands while she responds. "I want you," she says, so soft that he almost thinks that it was just the wind outside.

"You have me, though," he says, pulling her into his arms and hugging her close.

"No," Lenore says against his chest. "I want - I want you inside me."

The fire goes on crackling in front of them, louder now since neither of them are talking. H.G. doesn't really know what to say. "I-" he starts, then falters. The idea of being naked in front of - with - Lenore just seems very big and scary. "I don't know if I can right now."

"That's ok," Lenore says, even though she sounds a bit disappointed. "But can you just - hold me right now? Please?"

That's definitely something that H.G. is ok with, so they go back to cuddling and watching the fire and drinking cocoa and not talking about much of anything at all.

***

He does want her. Of course he does. It's just that he's still trying to get over the disconnect he feels when it comes to thinking about himself in that context. But Lenore is patient with him. She's starting to understand his boundaries and lets him take his time. She's so comfortable with his body that he almost starts feeling comfortable with it, too.

They're hanging out in her attic, chatting. Edgar is organizing another event soon so Lenore needs help finding something to wear. Every so often she'll emerge from behind the little folding screen in the corner of her room, wearing a different dress each time. H.G. knows that she's probably already decided, but it's still nice to watch her wear pretty things (since he also knows that she likes the attention).

"You know, for someone so antisocial, he really does throw a lot of parties," H.G. comments. He's half-lying, half-sitting on her bed, propped up on her pillows as he reads the latest draft of a story he's trying to write.

He hears rustling and Lenore's sweet laugh. "It's all for Annabel, really," she says, floating back out with her arms full of dresses. "He just likes showing off for her."

"And does she like it?" They both know he's only half talking about Edgar and Annabel now.

"Maybe," Lenore says, hanging up the dresses before floating over to him. "Or maybe this is just fine the way it is."

He sets aside the story since he was only half reading it (the edits can wait) and sits up properly so Lenore can settle into his arms. She kisses him, just a soft little rub of their lips together. Every so often she grinds down just so and he can't really help it, he lifts his hips to respond.

"Can I try something?" Lenore asks in between kisses. "It's ok if you don't want to," she continues, more quietly now. "I just - I want you so badly and it...it makes me sad that you think you're not important enough for it, or that you don't deserve it, because you do. You're so special to me, and I just want to make you feel good."

He surprises himself by saying yes. Baby steps, or something like that. She smiles at him, a little nervous and hopeful now. "Just tell me if something isn't ok or doesn't feel good," she explains. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."

There's something else floating in the air between them now. A pause but not a break, exactly - just the two of them, waiting. He's holding her in his lap still. This isn't bad, it isn't new. It makes him feel more settled in his body, like Lenore is just a natural extension of himself. Kissing Lenore isn't new, either - ok, that's good, he's become used to that as well. He's gotten good at it, even, if her little whimpery moans are anything to go by.

So when Lenore breaks the kiss to fold down on her knees in front of him, that doesn't feel so strange, either. They're just here, together. He trusts her.

Belt, trousers, pants - all these protections and layers between them. Ok, this is a bit different. He feels very vulnerable, but Lenore just looks up at him, expression soft and gentle, and that makes him feel safe again.

Lenore lowers her mouth and soon he's lost in the warm, wet heat of her swallowing around him. He jerks his hips involuntarily and she makes a little choked sound. Concerned, he moves to hold onto her, but even with his hands in her hair, tugging gently, she keeps going. She starts giving him slow, reassuring jacks that feed more of him into her mouth. Her other hand provides a steadying grip on his thigh as he shifts restlessly.

The role reversal is surreal. He's so used to doing this to her that it still seems unfair, even though she's reassured him that he's special, important. That he deserves this. He's pretty sure that he's trying to say something, but it doesn't sound like actual words.

Eventually he hits the back of her throat. She can't even move her mouth anymore, just slide her tongue very slowly over the prominent ridges of his veins. Now he can actually feel her swallow on him and it just about makes him white out. He's got this low, heavy pressure coiling inside him, heat suffusing his limbs. Somehow he knows what's going to happen and doesn't want it to - not like this, not yet.

So he guides her off him, puts himself back together, and explains. Lenore looks up at him with big doe eyes as she wipes off her mouth. "Don't worry," she says. "I'll wait for you."

***

Things eventually reach a breaking point. He's so tired of waiting, of holding himself back. He remembers the jolt and the way his body suddenly felt weightless and electric, as if he'd been struck by lightning. He remembers slipping away and her holding onto him. Important, somehow: the weight of his body against hers.

He remembers the first time he saw her again, after. He remembers putting so much of himself and his energy into getting back to her. This single-minded focus that he couldn't explain, only that he knew that he had to find her again no matter the cost. He remembers the smell of smoke and the look on her face - how surprised and delighted she was that he had returned.

All her complicated needs and desires. He wants to give all of himself to her, completely, but he also knows that they should do this right. There's only one chance for his first time.

It's summer now. The way the light hits all the greenery outside the house makes everything seem alive and full of possibility. Endings and beginnings as they lie outside in the garden, on soft grass surrounded by flowers. Lenore ties daisies together to make a flower crown and, laughing, puts it on his head. He smiles at her lopsidedly and suggests that they make a picnic.

"Sure," Lenore says, because of course she's up for nearly anything. They wander into the house, slow and sleepy from the sun, and make sandwiches and lemonade. She sets it all in a little wicker basket with a blanket and carries it herself. "Where to now?"

She's surprised when they don't go back to the garden. Instead, he leads her down to the pond. He can hear frogs and crickets and other rustly things in the grass. The ground leading to the pond is soft and squishy, so it's a bit tricky to get in the small rowboat without falling in. Which he does, of course, because he's coordinated like that. The flower crown slips off his head and floats in the pond nearby. Lenore grabs it and sets it on top of basket that's next to her inside the boat. She laughs at him, not unkindly, as he clambers awkwardly in, tipping the boat precariously.

Thankfully he only fell in to his waist, so he dries off quickly enough in the sun as he rows them slowly to the other shore.

They set out the picnic blanket and distribute sandwiches, mugs of lemonade. Eating quietly, watching the pond. Birds somewhere overhead. Twigs cracking. The wind, sighing through the trees. Lenore shields her eyes as she tilts her face up to the sun and smiles. She's just so _pretty_ , her skin pale and ethereal. He reaches out to take her hand. She squeezes, and he squeezes back.

H.G. kisses her then, leaning over just ever so slightly, still holding her hand. Warm, familiar - grounding. The trees above them have started making little patterns on her skin, shadows from the sun filtered through the leaves. Lenore kisses him very sweetly with a hint of dark and dirty underneath. The swish of her tongue along his.

He'd like to take the lead, but doesn't really know where to start. So they go on kissing for awhile until she reaches for him, for his turn, and he allows it. Lenore is very gentle with him and just takes her time. Her touch moves naturally from his shoulders, to the small of his back, down around to his hips and back up again. "You are wearing _entirely_ too many clothes for this," she finally says, and he's all awkward, fumbly, with the buttons of his waistcoat until she puts a steadying hand on his and squeezes again. "Just let me." Breathless. He feels a bit like a paper doll; she's taking off all his clothes and folding them neatly elsewhere on the blanket.

He's seen her naked plenty of times now, but this is different. It seems so much more important and intimate somehow, now that he's here with her. She opens herself up and slides down onto him, slow and cautious, and this high sharp little gasp when she's gone as far as she can go. He gasps, too: he's been inside her before - with his hands, his tongue - but now. Now, to be so close to her like this. They just settle there for a moment while he adjusts, feeling himself pulsing inside her and Lenore pulsing back. Pushing up into her, even as she sinks down to meet him (wants to be as deep as he can, be as close to her as possible).

She kisses him, cradling the back of his head, and it makes him feel like a delicate thing, a treasure. When she twists her hips a little, sliding against him, the slight change in pressure makes him whimper. The kisses are starting to get kind of sloppy: lots of tongue, licking into his mouth, but he doesn't mind at all. It's the strangest thing: he carries himself so dignified, except when he's with Lenore. She's touching his face, kissing him, asking if he's all right. (And he is all right, maybe more than he's ever been.)

It's all in the way she looks at him with those big, brown eyes, forehead a little creased, mouth fallen slightly open. And the _noises_ she's making, like she's about to cry. It's such a head rush watching her come apart like this, since she's so sure of herself all the time. And that he _made_ her do this. It's almost enough to make him forget the tight buzz of pleasure that's permeating him. The whole thing honestly makes him feel a bit dizzy. He finally understands why they call it making love because that's what it feels like - moving inside her so slowly and sweetly, the way she's got her thighs tight around them, physically close but also so much more. Like he can read her thoughts.

Nothing mattered until now. He knows without a doubt that Lenore is the most important thing in his life and nothing else comes close. He has to let her know somehow and doesn't think that words would be able to explain it properly. Especially since it's kind of difficult to think right now, much less form complete sentences. So he just thrusts up into her more urgently and she responds back, twisting down on him and panting as she does so.

Trembling. Both of them trembling. He holds onto her so tight he's starting to worry that she might break. But all she does is hold him back, hold him through this, this inevitable thing - warm and wet inside her, sliding along flexing muscles.

H.G. comes back to himself slowly, still reeling a little. And although he feels somehow new, with the awkwardness and hesitancy fading, nothing's changed, really. Lenore tethers him to the here and now. She always has, and always will.

**Author's Note:**

> [Yes, Oscar Wilde/Walt Whitman was a real thing.](http://the-toast.net/2013/09/17/oscar-wilde-and-walt-whitman-did-it/)


End file.
